


Someone Like You

by YellowAtlas



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death, Dreaming, Fluff, Funny, I hope..., John - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Lestrade - Freeform, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Mycroft, Oneshot, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock - Freeform, greg - Freeform, holmes - Freeform, mutual feelings, secretly in love, surpressed feelings, watson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 05:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowAtlas/pseuds/YellowAtlas
Summary: “Now you’re simply being silly Mycroft. One minute you tell he will probably kick me out the front door and the next you’re encouraging me to get it done. What is this little game of yours brother?” Sherlock raised one brow in question.“It’s not a game, Sherlock. It’s reality, I suppose I assumed that I could shield you from the hard ways of love by telling you that caring was not an advantage. But you are your own person, and as your own person, I cannot tell you what to feel. Forgive me brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice rang with regret.“Perhaps shielding is to be preferred.” Sherlock's voice was simple, it was just stating an opinion, and showing no emotion of the whirlwind he felt inside.Of all the scenarios, about how John would greet him when he finally returned home, Sherlock had imagined during his two-year “death”, this had never crossed his mind. Hadn’t their bond been unbreakable, undestroyable...mutual?





	Someone Like You

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first work on here and my first completed Johnlock fic, I have more in the workings. If you're not aware already this is a one-shot, just saying ;) Please feel free to leave a comment with your opinion, it would mean the world to me. Thank you all so much, for choosing to read my story. And know I sound like a commercial...oops
> 
> Huge thanks to my beta Hypereuni, she is plain awesome!
> 
> Well anyway, enjoy
> 
> Oh, btw the song mentioned at the near end is I Wouldn't Mind by He Is We, in case you want to listen to it just to set the mood ;)

Throughout his life Sherlock was certain that he had closed more doors than he was ever going to open, some out of self-preservation, others out of the pure need to be in control of a situation, especially if it involved sentiment. Yet, here he was standing in front of 221B Baker Street, after two years and out of his own free will, thank you very much, because nothing could force the great Sherlock Holmes to do anything he did not wish to do. The only exception being his heart, of course, and he found this unexplainable longing fairly odd; after all, he was a man ruled by his logical mind and not his foolish heart.

 

He was fairly quickly convinced otherwise though when he caught himself rehearsing all kinds of nonsense in his head that he saw no logic in. They were all small, sentimental...confessions? No, of course, they weren’t confessions. He didn’t confess; he observed. He observed and only spoke when he felt it was an utmost necessity. But this, this was something more than an observation; it was stronger than a fact, complex in a totally alien way to him. He had no control over this sentiment if one could call it that, and frankly it scared the hell out of him. He was so used to being in control that it seemed unthinkable for him not to be. He inhaled a deep breath of the fresh London air, then overcome with a wave of uncertainty he pinched the bridge of his pale nose with his long and slender fingers. It had been two bloody years, both figuratively and literally. Surely John had moved on, as hesitant as Sherlock was to admit it. John must have moved on, he had been an army doctor for crying out loud he had lost a lot of comrades, why should this be any different? But it had been different for Sherlock.

 

For two years he had been on the run trying and succeeding in unraveling the enormous web that was Moriarty’s organization. He had tortured, been tortured in return and traveled the whole world to protect the people he cared the most about, only to stand here on this crucial day to have doubts. He was Sherlock Holmes, for Christ's sake. He, of all people on this unintelligent planet, should be certain of the decision he was making. No matter how much he wanted to, how hard he forced his brain to try, he could not overcloud the piercing doubts flooding his overworked mind. The cold, insulting detective who was said to not have much of a heart ( if such a heart even existed within his body) had been replaced by this insecure and slightly anxious skeleton of a man. His brilliant brain, however, was still counting and revising the facts. John might have changed. John might have moved on. One thing that Sherlock was sure John might not have done was to forget him, and after this immense shock, Sherlock was sure to cause he knew that John would not forgive him either.

 

At that provoking, but sadly true thought, the tables turned inside his great mind. He glanced at the window of the flat one last time. He etched the pattern of the brick into his memory and admired the soft looking white stone covering the lower facade. He internally laughed at the hideous curtains and wordlessly insulted the many goldfish walking the street and their funny little brains before disappearing into thin air.

 

“Please Mycroft, I do not need your pity,” Sherlock bluntly declared with a great deal of annoyance in his voice. The slim man with ebony curls surrounding his sharp features carelessly stepped on the low wooden coffee table Mycroft had insisted be in the tiny flat, viewing it as the easiest way to transport his body towards the window. 

“You know I worry about you, brother mine.” Mycroft’s eyes were fixed on the back of Sherlock's head as the younger Holmes brother stared distantly out the window. The flat, their flat, was just across the street, yet it felt like it was a thousand miles away, endlessly out of his reach. And it was, in every sense of the word, truly, painfully unreachable. “Admittedly I worry about the doctor too. Your death took its toll on him.” Mycroft’s voice softened a tiny pinch, that no one but Sherlock would be able to register. “I know you do too. You can’t hide such an obvious fact from me. It should almost lead one to believe that you are rather fond of Doctor Watson.”

“I’m most definitely not in love with John,” Sherlock countered defensively. He might as well be direct and just say the goddamn words, perhaps it would help saying them. His heart and mind had a bit of a row with each other at that thought, because Sherlock didn’t allow himself display such emotions towards anybody. He had continuously been reminded of that throughout his childhood. Mycroft’s words, the ones he was reminded of so often, still clung to his memory to this day:  _ Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. _ Still, his heart ached at the thought of John alone in that flat crying himself to sleep. He had experienced several dreams where he was back in 221B Baker Street, curled around John on his bed whispering sweet nothings in his ear. As much as he despised the thought once he woke up his heart longed to dwell in that sweet dream.

 

Seen in retrospect, that was probably where his addiction to lucid dreaming started. Yes, he was absolutely positive that the rather bad habit had been triggered by that exact dream sequence, and so he had taken to drinking. Drinking, of course, wasn’t the healthiest thing to do, he was well aware, but after his first non-lucid dream about John, he had gone to the bar and gotten pissed. It was so very unlike him, he was also very aware of that, but he couldn’t help it. By that point in time, it had been a year and a half. 18 bloody months and he needed something, anything. When he returned from his little escapade he had gone out cold on his bed and for the first time in his life, experienced lucid dreaming. Surely he had heard of other ways to achieve this state, but none had been quite as effective, not quite as real. Night after night he had picked up the bottle. It had taken him a couple of days, drinking alcohol wasn’t his strong side, until he had found the perfect mix. Two pints of beer, obviously, and then two vodka shots, even though he preferred vodka sunrise despite his limited experience with alcohol consumption. At first, he had tried with vodka sunrise but it didn’t do the job, and at that moment experiencing John was so much more valuable to him than actually enjoying the process of getting there, and so he had stuck to straight vodka. 

 

“Now brother mine, are you certain of that?” Mycroft tabbed the top of his umbrella on the floor a couple of times as to emphasize the importance of his rather thoughtful question. Not that Sherlock needed guiding _ — _ he was as sure of his answer to his brother as one could be.

“Yes, I am certain that I’m not,” Sherlock searched for the right word, “...sentimental when it comes to John.”

“Love clouds one's judgment, but what would you know about that matter? You are basically a sentiment virgin.”

“I’m not!” Sherlock insisted, turning to face his brother with contempt sprinkled across his porcelain features.

“You aren’t? Here you are, ‘dead’, but still failing to admit your love to the dear Doctor. Probably wouldn’t do you any good whatsoever. For all, he knows you’re dead and gone, and when you finally do decide to show your face he will probably kick you out the front door.” It was as if Mycroft knew just which buttons to push to get the wanted reaction out of Sherlock. 

“Okay, so say that I do feel something. What would be appropriate to do in such a situation?” Sherlock’s tone that usually echoed intellect and knowledge several miles away, now sounded lost, confused and sincerely unsure.

“Oh my, you truly are inexperienced, aren’t you?” If one didn’t know any better one might assume that Mycroft was pitying his younger brother. In fact, he was just confirming a simple fact and perhaps teasing Sherlock just the tiniest bit. Sherlock bluntly rolled his eyes sky high.

“Oh, do stop with your nonsense and answer my question!” Sherlock’s patience was running low after two years off being chased and seeing his head on wanted posters. He just wanted a tad of advice, as embarrassing as it was for him to admit. 

“Well, I shall not make myself the expert of love but,-”

“Oh please go right ahead, you’re practically already the British government, why not add another job to your resume, Amor?” Sherlock snapped, looking defiantly at his brother.

“But, this is no ordinary situation, so I suggest you get it over with. Why lurk in the shadows any longer than necessary?” Mycroft pointed out, tapping his umbrella against the creaky wooden floor.

“Now you’re simply being silly, Mycroft. One minute you tell me that he will probably kick me out the front door and the next you’re encouraging me to get it done. What is this little game of yours, brother?” Sherlock raised one brow in question.

“It’s not a game, Sherlock. It’s reality, I suppose I assumed that I could shield you from the hard ways of love by telling you that caring was not an advantage. But you are your own person, and as your own person, I cannot tell you what to feel. Forgive me, brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice rang with regret.

“Perhaps shielding is to be preferred,” Sherlock said simply,  without showing the whirlwind of emotions he felt inside. 

 

Was this really what his life was like now? Was this what being your own person was like? He had always believed that being his own person meant that he could take distance from any bond of sentiment, platonic and romantic, and he had succeeded until this day. Of course, he had been his own person before, but he had been guarded by Mycroft's voice echoing in his mind. Now that he didn’t have that, he was at a loss for what to do or say. His brilliant mind was blank on this subject.

“I truly wish I could help you with this brother, but it seems that the longer I am here the more trouble I cause. I will be leaving now, best of luck, brother dear.” Mycroft turned in his posh suit and walked slowly towards the dark oak door leading out of the tiny flat. Sherlock stood at the window watching his brother leave. He didn’t make a move to rush Mycroft away but rather hoped that he would actually slow down because once Mycroft was gone Sherlock knew he had to face John. The danger was nonexistent now, and there was no reason to lurk in the shadows anymore, exactly as Mycroft had said. With a final swing of the dark blue umbrella, Mycroft shut the door, leaving Sherlock in the dark.

 

Oh god, this was it. He was back in London with no way to back out now. He almost wished he could go back to dismembering terror cells. Just almost. But then again, the torturing and constant fleeing hadn't been all too pleasant now, had it? A small voice asked. No, but it had been necessary, he reminded it. Otherwise, we would have lost John. Even the thought made his heart break a little. He couldn’t bear to lose his best friend, let alone his only friend. What if this whole sentiment thing went to hell? Their friendship would surely vanish as well, wouldn’t it?

 

The air was chilly outside and Sherlock wrapped his Belstaff closer around himself with a gloved hand. This didn’t do much to block the cold that draped itself over him like an icy blanket. It almost felt like treason when he stepped inside the pub like he was betraying the very concept of love by getting pissed in some lousy pub instead of being courageous enough to stand up for what he felt, and who he felt it for. He had always viewed love as a feeling that only sentimental ordinary people experience, but here he was, the greatest mind in all of Britain, if not the greatest mind in the whole world, madly in love with his best friend. 

 

The guilt drowned him when his foot crossed the threshold to the small pub. Still, he proceeded to sit down at the bar desperately wanting to drown his doubts in golden brown liquid.

“The usual?” the bartender asked while polishing a whiskey glass. Yes, he had been here before. In fact, he had visited this place so many times that the bartender had memorized his order, a stupid impression trick if Sherlock had to be frank.

“Yes, that will do,” he responded without looking at the man behind the bar. The bartender returned a minute later with a pint in his hand.

“Here you go,” he presented the beer. “You seem gloomy, is there something I can do for you?” he questioned after having placed the beer in front of the pale man.

“No,” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Nothing there.”

“Perhaps I can cheer you up?” a young woman purred suggestively and slid onto the barstool next to Sherlock’s. She was wearing a tight red dress that managed to show off a tad too much cleavage for Sherlock’s liking. She licked her red lips and winked at him with one of her clear blue eyes surrounded by thick, lush lashes. Her chocolate colored hair was pulled back in a high, curly ponytail, leaving her spotless skin undisturbed by the silky locks. To any given man she might be gorgeous, the sort of girl you would give your right hand to be with, but not Sherlock. He considered his right hand way too important. 

He quickly picked her apart. Only child, lived on her own (obviously), had, no, had had a cat about two years ago, frequently dyed her hair, smoked at parties, and had a habit of picking up one night stands from various bars throughout the city, if her current actions were anything to go by. She looked him up and down with lustful eyes before speaking.

“So tell me, what is a handsome guy like you doing here all alone?” Oh please, he thought and took a swig of his beer. The woman must have reached a new level of desperation to utter such a cringe-worthy question.

“No, I’m serious.” She smiled and leaned one elbow on the table to support her chin and looked at Sherlock. “A guy like you certainly must have a special someone, or maybe it’s just my luck.” She bit her lip seductively and he blushed slightly at the compliment. However, he remained quiet. He had no idea what to say. This woman was flirting with him, right?

“Oh, do say something,” she cocked her head at him with a pleading look. “I’m sure your voice is just as attractive as the rest of you.” She placed her long, slim fingers on his lower thigh and a strange sensation went up his spine. “Anything,” she elaborated with a seductive look sprinkled across her flawless features. She was breathtaking, if only he wasn’t interested in someone else. The pleading in her eyes soon turned to burning desire the higher her hand went. She stopped again mid-thigh and Sherlock just barely suppressed a moan. He was supposed to be asexual, damn it!

“You like that?” she whispered in a seductive tone; she must have sensed the way his legs shuddered. “Then, how about this?” she moved her fingers up a centimeter or so higher and tingles ran through his body again. “You know, you could have me completely at your mercy all night, just say something.” Her voice was beginning to get a little raspy. “Anything,” she repeated and he could feel her hot breath on his ear. He moaned quietly and she smirked in victory. “Oh, come on. For me, pretty boy.” she ran her hand through his hair and he felt the warmth of her skin against his neck. She leaned in slowly, her red lips glistening and her eyes closing slowly. The friction their lips created when they met was indescribable to Sherlock, and yet so wrong. This was his first kiss since his teenage years and it was supposed to be with someone special, not some flirty woman he didn’t even know. All he could think about as she leaned in for more, was John. It had always been John. It would always be John.

 

He saw John, though John did not see him, across the street as her laugh broke the silence of the London night. It wasn’t because Sherlock suddenly had cracked a joke or something of the like, it was because he not spoken a single word to her, and somehow she must have found that rather entertaining. But John looked devastated, broken and fragile. Like a hedgehog without its spikes, disheartened. Sherlock's heart tightened as if it were squashed by two enormous rocks and his stomach dropped to the soles of his feet. Despite the want to be with his John again, he continued up the street, turning his head once every so often to see John disappear further and further into the foggy night. Away from Sherlock, whose heart had long ago broken into a million tiny shards, too damaged to ever fix again. If only he knew. Somehow, he still ended up fiddling in his pocket for the keys to his temporary living quarters, while the pretty brunette clung to his arm. He inserted the keys in the lock and opened the door for her. 

 

Sherlock was still convinced that he didn’t do anything he truly didn’t want to do, so why had he done this? Why had he brought her home? Well, it would never really be home, perhaps that was why. To distance himself even more from this place and this chapter of his life by associating it with something he would never repeat. He felt another amount of weight on his body and looked up to find the brunette straddling his thighs and hips. She bit her lip yet again and leaned down to press a gentle, but hungry kiss to his jaw. “I’m Alesha by the way,” she whispered in his ear, before venturing further along his jaw, placing soft kisses as she went. He felt his grip on his sanity and beloved logical mind loosen. He struggled to suppress a soft moan and the urge to put his hands on her hips consumed him almost completely, but Sherlock, as everybody knew, was talented when it came to self-control in certain areas, so he kept his hands to himself. She sucked what would probably turn into a mild hickey just below his collarbone. Her hands wandered endlessly, up his thighs, across his abs, over his biceps, interlacing with his musician's fingers, but he never reciprocated any of these gestures. 

 

He was on the line between not giving a bloody fuck, and let him himself enjoy this one-night thing, and caring all too much that this was happening with the wrong person. Her hands traveled south once more but never reached his thighs; instead, they came to a halt on top of his belt buckle. Her thin manicured fingers fumbled with the metal buckle, but before she could make her move to undo the belt completely he stopped her. 

 

He laid his own slender hands on top of her thinner ones and looked at her with an apologetic, cold look rooted in his grey eyes. He slowly removed her hands from his belt buckle. 

“What’s the matter?” she questioned. She placed her hands on his chest and started drawing small circles with her fingertips. He had never been in the position to enjoy this kind of stimuli before, but oh god, did it feel fantastic. It felt like her hands were on fire and he wanted more, but at the same time wanted none of it. He desperately battled the lust of his animalistic side; he didn’t even know such a side actually did exist, he had always brushed it off as being some over dramatic expression with absolutely no evidence behind it. Not even when he had studied at Man U and experienced with his sexuality had he felt that animalistic tug. The question she had asked went straight to the back of his mind and all of his energy went into battling the tug.

“Did I move too fast?” Her finger kept up tracing small circles that sent vibrations throughout his body. The teasing tone she had sported all night suddenly and brutally got to him. He shoved her so that she lost her balance on his lap and stumbled to her feet. 

“What are you doing?” she raised a suggestive eyebrow and a satisfied smirk appeared on her lips. He was slowly gaining back the control he had lost to her red lips and slim fingers, that was what he was doing. She neared Sherlock and let her hand caress his neck. He roughly grabbed her wrist and whispered,“I would very much appreciate it if you were to leave this flat right this instant.” There was nothing threatening lurking in his tone; in fact, he even had a gentle smile placed on his face. She gaped, in astonishment, he presumed, before narrowing her eyes at him. What she did next he would never have foreseen: she kissed him. It was rough and intense and it made him take a step backward.

“I’m serious.” he hissed.

“So am I,” she responded. She gave him a more gentle peck on the lips before swirling around and grabbing her purse that she had left by the door. She turned back around.

“That’s why I don’t waste my time on guys I know I can’t have.” she winked. The door slammed. 

 

They would have become close friends if Sherlock hadn’t faked his death two years prior to meeting Alesha. Maybe it was karma.

 

For awhile Sherlock stood at the window looking into the night; it had seemed that doing this had become a habit of his, as he spent almost all of his time in the small flat either staring out the window or dreaming of John. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he didn’t bother looking at it, instead, he decided to buy a six-pack of beer and a bottle of vodka. He grabbed his coat and patted the pockets to make sure that his wallet was there before heading into the chilly London night once more. The moon had risen and he presumed that it was well past midnight already.

He breathed in the fresh air, as fresh as polluted urban air could get, and headed towards the kiosk where he usually bought his liquor. 

 

The small store smelled of alcohol and clouds of smoke hung in the air. The owner was a small, thin man with glasses and stubble along his jaw. 

“Oi mate!” the owner greeted Sherlock.

“Evening,” Sherlock muttered.

“Night, you mean. I was actually just locking up. What d’ya need?” 

“A six-pack of beer and a bottle of vodka,” Sherlock responded feeling rather ashamed that this was the method he had resorted to instead of just talking to the man; he lived right across the street for god's sake!

“Here ya go.” the owner placed a six-pack and a bottle of cheap vodka on the counter. Sherlock threw a tenner on the counter.

“Keep the change,” he said before leaving the store, liquor in hand.

 

He returned to his small apartment after having smoked a quick cigarette on the street. He had relapsed into smoking approximately two weeks after returning from his ‘great adventures’ as Mycroft referred to it. He wasn’t even one bit sorry about it; he had gone through hell back, he had deserved a cigarette by his own standards. He dumped his coat on the floor before proceeding to carelessly throw the bottle of vodka onto the sofa and opened a beer. The beer quickly vanished from the can and was speedily replaced by another one. Sherlock downed three cans before switching to vodka. He took a couple of swigs from the bottle, not even trying to pour the drink into shot glasses. He had failed miserably the last time and Mycroft had been pissed to discover that the sofa cushions had alcohol stains on them. Sherlock laughed to himself as he thought about his brother. Half bald, chubby and miserable. No wonder he cared so much about sofa cushions.

 

After a couple more swigs Sherlock put the bottle back on the table, but his coordination was so poor that he placed it on the edge and it ended up tumbling to the floor, vodka spilling everywhere. He sat back feeling slightly dizzy and waited for the effects to kick in. If he had done this right he would fall into a dream filled sleep where he had almost perfectly mastered the art of controlling what happened. If he had done this wrong he was either going to pass out or have insomnia for the rest of the night. He started rocking back and forth slowly feeling himself being carried away by the effects of the alcohol. His eyes flickered and he strongly considered laying down on the couch, but he couldn't find the strength to lift his legs. Oh well, he might as well end up on the floor, if only it got him closer to John. He was no longer ashamed, only filled with the want to dream of his John yet again, just as he had done so many other lonely and miserable nights. 

 

_ The sun shone through the curtains into Sherlock’s bedroom at 211B Baker Street. Sherlock opened his eyes and was temporarily blinded by the sharp, lovely sunlight. Another day, another adventure. He rolled onto his side. Next to him lay his wonderful army doctor, sheets wrapped halfway up his naked chest. Sherlock smiled to himself. He was the luckiest man in the world to have the privilege of being allowed to call John his. That was exactly what he was: John was Sherlock’s and Sherlock was John’s. Sherlock’s eyes wandered from John’s naked torso to John’s left hand, where a band engraved with cursive writing decorated the soldier's ring finger. Sherlock squinted, trying to read the text. The word was small, but he was positive that it read ‘starving’. At first, he thought he might have read it wrong until he looked down at his own hand to find a band of the same characteristics with the word ‘hungry?’ engraved in the pure gold. He chuckled at the memory. _

 

Sherlock woke with a jittery feeling in his body that was everywhere, from the soles of his feet to the tips of his fingers. He took a deep breath and rolled to the side. Thump! He felt the not so soft rug under his ribs on his left side. With one hand he halfheartedly tried to push himself up. He managed to lift his head a small bit from the floor before collapsing flat on the floor again. He sighed in an annoyed manner and drifted back to the magic dreamland of controlled actions.

 

_ Sherlock rubbed his gloved hands together in an attempt to create some friction and heat. He leaned back against the rough brick wall. Even though he had just solved the last box of cold cases from 40 years ago, his brain was overheated from not having anything to work out at the moment. Sometimes he wished that he could have John or Lestrade’s brain, or maybe even Anderson’s if he was really desperate, just for a day, just to get some rest from the constant buzzing in his head. There were always drugs, of course, but the last time he had gone to fetch some it seemed that Mycroft had paid off every pusher in London not to sell him any. And so, he had returned home empty-handed and wound up calling Lestrade at 3 o’clock at night to get his hands on some cold cases, where the perpetrators were usually dead. Oh, the measures he would go to get some stimulation. Just as he was considering whether or not to buy a pack of cigarettes from the kiosk around the corner a cab honked from the curb. Sherlock tried to make out who was sitting in the backseat as he made his way towards the cab. He got in and was greeted by a hand on his arm, piercing blue eyes and a deep, passionate kiss. _

_ “I wondered when you would get here.” Sherlock teased. _

_ “Right in time, it seems.”  his boyfriend responded, with a seductive wink. As John leaned in again, Sherlock realized that all the stimulation he could ever need was right there. _

When he woke up the second time his head pounded and the sun pierced his eyes. He groaned and rolled over burying his head in the carpet. He was well acquainted with the symptoms of a hangover by now, but he swore it still felt as though knives penetrated his head from all angles possible. Somehow, he managed to stumble to his feet and run to the bathroom where he retched violently. He sat back on his heels once he was done emptying what felt like poison from his stomach and sighed. 

He stood silently by the window, as he usually did when he was busy nursing a hangover, coffee in hand. It was no secret that tea was his favorite caffeinated beverage of choice, but he found that coffee was more efficient when his head hurt and his stomach rolled. The mailman came by as he usually did, and life sped by outside the window. A young woman smiled down at her small child, who very enthusiastically jumped up and down trying to reach one of the last orange-red leaves on a tree. As he watched the girl trying and failing to reach the leaf over and over, before her mother, in the end, plucked the leaf and handed it to her daughter, he decided that this was going to be the day. This was going to be the day he contacted John. This was going to be the day he was going to pour his heart out to John. This was the day that might destroy him. The leaf fell from the girl’s hand and flew down the street.

Sherlock trotted down the stairs of his second floor flat. While wrapping his favourite blue scarf around his neck, he adjusted his coat before opening the main door and stepping out onto the street. The birds had long since stopped chirping and leaves flooded the sidewalk. A man carrying groceries bumped into him as Sherlock moved closer to the curb of Baker Street. 

It was funny how the other side of the street, where his beloved 221B was located, felt so much more like home. After he had crossed the street it was as though a change had occurred inside of him. He now felt powerful, completely in control, exactly as he preferred it. He glared at the straight knocker on the door and knocked using his knuckles. The door was soon opened by Mrs. Hudson who did a double take before letting out a surprised laugh.

“I knew it!” she announced before enveloping Sherlock in a big hug.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” he whispered into her neck. She slowly let go of him. 

“I just knew it!” she exclaimed with a huge smile on her face. “I  knew you would come back! Oh, come on in, Sherlock dear. No need to stand outside on this cold day, I’ll just put the kettle on.” She showed him to her kitchen with flowered wallpaper. The room smelled like cookies and perfume, just as he remembered.

“Please, do sit down dear.” she gestured to one of the two chairs facing each other on opposite sides of the small table that was pushed up against the wall. Mrs. Hudson placed a steaming hot mug of peppermint tea in front of him and sat down with her own cup cradled in her hands.

“So, tell me, how many people did you kill?” Sherlock was taken aback by the sudden question about how many lives he had taken. He wasn’t proud of the answer, he never would be, but he was sure that it had been the right thing to do. How did Mrs. Hudson even know that he had been abroad on a killing spree and not dead and buried? Mrs.Hudson might be more intelligent than she was credited for 

“More than I could ever count, Mrs. Hudson.” He whispered in an ashamed tone. She looked at him with empathic eyes, a veil of understanding coating them.

“Everything will be alright in the end, Sherlock, just you wait and see.”

Sherlock finished the last of his still hot tea in a big, noisy gulp. Mrs. Hudson smiled. 

“More tea?” she offered politely and made a move to get the kettle from the stove.

“No, thank you.” Sherlock kindly declined her offer of more tea. “Could I go see John now?” he got up from his seat and took a couple of steps towards the door.

“Of course, dear. I haven’t seen him all morning, so be careful not to give him a heart attack.”

“Do you see him often?” Sherlock questioned, leaning against the door frame.

“It was more in the beginning, but it broke him, Sherlock. You broke him.” her tone was sad and heavy. “He wouldn’t even get out of bed the first three months, I suppose it is to be expected when one loses one’s boyfriend.”

“He wasn’t my boyfriend, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock complained for the umpteenth time since he had first moved into 211B.

“Whatever the two of you had going on, he really loved you.” She took hold of Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Don’t break him again, promise me.” Sherlock smiled sadly at Mrs. Hudson and left her flat.

Sure he had known that John had been sad, but broken? He would never have figured that his ‘death’ had left John in such a pathetic state. This might be worse than he thought. He slowly climbed the seventeen steps up to their shared flat. The stairs creaked louder than ever and his heart pounded like it was going to explode in his tight chest. What if John could never forgive him? What would he do then? Move in with Mycroft? No, never, because John was a good human, he reasoned with himself, he would never let Sherlock live with his annoying brother. Not in a million years. And to think that Mycroft hadn’t even gotten in touch with John during the two years! What a horrible brother indeed, why couldn’t he mother hen John like he did Sherlock? It would surely have helped the situation.

Sherlock finally reached the top of the stairs after what felt like an eternity of worrying. He knocked curtly but no one answered. He tried again but to no avail. It would almost leave one to believe that John had gone out. His palm felt immensely sticky when he turned the knob in the hope that the door wasn’t locked. It wasn’t and Sherlock was free to enter. He did, and as he had first suspected, nobody was home. Even to Sherlock, the state of the flat had to be described as chaotic. It seemed like a suitable word for the broken mirror on the wall, at least twenty unwashed dishes in the sink, and the uncountable amount of papers strewn carelessly on the floor, covering every last inch of the hardwood floors. He picked up one of the papers, it was an article in the Daily Mail around a year ago about himself, Sherlock Holmes, the great detective. The piece described several conspiracy theories on how he had faked his own death because apparently a larger group of people were convinced that he had. Oh, how right they had been, clever goldfish.

He proceeded into his own bedroom, where the sheets had clearly been slept in, judging by the lingering scent of gunpowder and strawberry jam. That was what first made him realize that his disappearance might really have gotten to John. 

_ "You know I can't take that into consideration when solving a case, John!" _

_ “Oh, why?” John mocked. “Because you’re an insensitive arse, who doesn’t understand human emotions! Don’t you care about the people involved in the cases? She was grieving!” John raged and dragged both of his hands through his hair rapidly. _

_ “It’s not like empathy helps to solve a case!” Sherlock shot back just as harshly. “I’m married to the Work, remember?”  _ _ he gestured wildly with his hands and rolled his eyes at John. _

_ “That’s clear, after all, you’re just a sociopath with no friends because you would rather spend time with a goddamn skull!” John threw the skull at Sherlock who ducked just in time.  _ _ The shock came in waves, crashing over him until he realized exactly what John had said. He was about to spit a nasty comment in defense when the anger faded almost completely, leaving a harsh truth, John was going to leave. _

_ “I do have a friend.” Sherlock’s voice wobbled at the accusation. “I have you, John.” A single tear spilled down his cheek. _

_ “Not anymore.” John slammed the door behind him, leaving Sherlock crying, yes crying, to pick up the pieces in the late August sun, if there were any to pick up. _

The state of the bathroom wasn’t any prettier. Mrs. Hudson surely hadn’t been allowed up here. Otherwise, she would have cleaned this mess and then probably scolded John for not cleaning it himself. However, what surprised Sherlock the most was that when he drew back the shower curtain he found a bloody razor lying on the floor tiles. He picked up the object and studied it. From the state of the blood, he deduced that the incident had happened yesterday. Oh lord, yesterday, when he had been busy fooling around with some chick, John had been miserable. He smashed his fist against the wall and sunk to his knees. This, he looked at the razor clutched in his left hand, this was his fault. His vision quickly became blurry, but out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something colorful. Sniffling, he leaned across the floor to pick it up, it was a photograph of Lestrade, John and himself smiling widely at the camera. Sherlock chuckled through the tears.

_ It will be fun, they had said. You will actually get to have a social life and who knows, you might even have a good time, they had said.  _

_ “You know, you might even enjoy it.” John teased and poked him in the ribs with his elbow. The reddish-orange leaves covered the pavement and the usual Halloween atmosphere hung over the city on this October night. The wind tousled Sherlock's hair, which had gotten a little longer than he normally preferred. He hadn’t bothered getting a haircut. It was a waste of time when one was in the middle of solving a huge case.  _

_ “I could have a breakthrough tonight, John. And then it will be your fault I didn’t because you dragged me here.” _

_ “I’m sure you’re plenty capable of having a breakthrough here as well, now come on.” John led the way through the door to the bar and quickly located Lestrade over by a table holding a beer in his hand. _

_ “Here you go. I ordered a beer for each of you as well.” Lestrade handed them each a beer. Sherlock took a small sip. _

_ “I’m more of a vodka sunrise type,” he commented and placed the beer down on the table. _

_ “I didn’t think you had a preference.” Lestrade laughed. _

_ “Me neither.” John agreed laughing along. “Drink up!” he handed Sherlock his glass again. Sherlock frowned. As the hours passed by the empty glasses piled up on their table. Sherlock went to get another round of beers from the bar when Lestrade began telling a story in a slurred manner. The bartender eyed Sherlock up and down and discreetly licked his lips. _

_ “You seem to be having fun, do you maybe wanna go have some more out back?” the bartender winked at him. _

_ “You’re married,” Sherlock commented when he noticed the fresh imprints of a ring on the man’s left ring finger. “Not happily, I would presume, otherwise you wouldn’t be taking your ring off for work in case you should spot a newer model. Pathetic, really,” he finished by turning on his heel and walked back to the table. _

_ “...He couldn’t even walk, so I had to carry him the police car.” Lestrade had just finished his story with a big laugh and satisfaction in his voice when Sherlock returned. John laughed loudly and far longer than what was appropriate. Sherlock joined in the laughing too. “Come on, let’s take a selfie. So, we can forever remember that Sherlock was drunk once too.” Lestrade suggested. Both Sherlock and John eagerly agreed, far too drunk to care.  _

_ “3...2...1, smile!” They all smiled like true idiots and the camera clicked. _

The living room was probably in an even worse condition than when Sherlock had lived there. Sherlock was truly grateful when he didn’t find any objects in the living area that had been used for self-harm. The tears weren’t pouring down his cheeks anymore, one can only cry so much, but he still sniffled occasionally. As he had seen when he had first entered papers were strewn everywhere. It almost seemed like John had been looking for something that was clearly important to him, otherwise, he surely would have cleaned this mess. Maybe he had been too broken? 

It had started raining outside.

_ The sun had left the sky hours ago and god knew what time it was, still, here they were, strolling through the streets of London on a Wednesday night. Sherlock was discreetly trying to hide a cigarette behind his back and took a puff each time John’s attention was elsewhere. The stars sparkled overhead and the rain placed soft, wet drops on Sherlock’s beloved Belstaff coat. The winter had grabbed London only just last week, but the temperature was already below 0 degrees Celsius at night. Sherlock exhaled and his hot breath mixed with cigarette smoke could clearly be seen in the frosty night air.  _

_ “Began smoking again did you, Sherlock?” John cocked one eyebrow in a teasing manner. _

_ “Nothing of the sort, search me.” Sherlock challenged with a smirk.  _ _ He dropped the smoke on the pavement and took a step back to successfully put it out, squashing it with his shoe. _

_ “Gladly.” John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and stopped walking. He started patting down Sherlock’s coat only to find empty pockets. John looked critically at Sherlock. _

_ “Where do you keep them then?” John’s voice was still teasing but it had an edge of irritation to it. _

_ “You tell me,” Sherlock responded holding out his arms to the sides. The shorter man patted down the length of both of his arms but found nothing. Next, he stuck his hands under Sherlock’s coat and searched his suit jacket. _

_ “Is there like a secret pocket in here or something?” John started pulling at the fabric, searching for a pocket that wasn’t actually there. He kept tugging at the material for a while, to no avail. John looked up at Sherlock with a puzzled expression on his face.  _

_ “Sherlock, did you -” He was quickly cut off by Sherlock’s harsh lips claiming his plush ones. First, John groaned in confusion, it had been a very sudden move and his brain hadn’t comprehended what had happened. Little after little John relaxed into the kiss and ultimately tugged on Sherlock’s scarf to bring them closer together. Sherlock moaned quietly before pulling away tenderly. Their eyes met for a brief second, then Sherlock cut off their connection by proceeding in a hasty tempo, down the street through the rain, not quite wanting to acknowledge what he had just done, but satisfied nonetheless. A tiny smile played on Sherlock’s lips and he started humming to himself.  _

_ “What the hell, Sherlock?” John announced after catching up with his mate. _

_ “I’m humming,” Sherlock responded in a glad tone. “I’m not afraid anymore, I’m not afraid,” he sang. “Forever is a long time, but I wouldn’t mind it by your side.” he went back to humming the melody to himself. _

_ “I meant what you just did, doofus.” John laughed but hummed along anyway. _

_ “Oh, you didn’t -” Sherlock avoided eye contact and stopped humming to focus on the sky instead. “You didn’t like it?” he asked nervously.  _ _ What was going on with all the sudden sentiment? First crying, then being abruptly impulsive in initiating a kiss, and now being nervous when asking a simple, factual question? _

_ “I did, it’s just that it was very sudden,” John confessed sheepishly. _

_ “It’s all in the element of surprise, John,” Sherlock said before he started humming quietly again. _

He hummed the tune to himself while rummaging through the papers on the kitchen table. Most of them were articles about him either before or after he had faked his death. Along with the tons of paper lay a single CD Sherlock leaned across the table to pick it up and immediately recognized the band on the cover, He Is We. He remembered John used to tease him about the fact that he secretly liked soft, mushy music when they had first become flatmates, but after their little encounter in the rain, John had come to love a specific song on that album. It had been as close to a ‘their song’ as they had ever come. 

_ It was just after Christmas, which Sherlock had spent with John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, who had recently gotten divorced. He and John were tidying up the Christmas decorations when he stumbled upon something he had been looking for a while. John noticed that Sherlock had stopped removing the ornaments from the tree and came to look at what he had found. _

_ “Is that?” John asked, letting the rest of the question remain hanging in the air as he touched the dusty plastic cover. _

_ “It is,” Sherlock confirmed popping the case open and removing the CD. He put the CD on the CD player and skipped to the only song that really mattered on the album anymore.  _

_ Merrily we fall _

_ Out of line, out of line _

_ I’d fall anywhere with you _

_ I’m by your side _

_ Swinging in the rain _

_ Humming melodies _

_ We're not going anywhere until we freeze _

_ I’m not afraid, anymore _

_ I’m not afraid _

_ Forever is a long time _

_ But I wouldn't mind spending it by your side _

_ They sat quietly humming, enjoying the music that had once sounded obnoxious to John, but that he now was extremely fond of. Sherlock started quietly singing along to the song and tapping his foot to the beat. The music flowed through his body as he listened to every word. He knew now that he wasn’t afraid of sentiment anymore, or at least not as much as he used to be, not with John in his life.  _

Sherlock sat softly crying in his chair, which was still there in the middle of the flat opposite John’s, just as he had left it. From what he could deduce through a heavy smog of emotions John had preferred to use Sherlock’s chair after he had left. Of course, he had. It was the closest he could get to Sherlock, besides sleeping in his bed of course. 

The song, their song as he had come to think of it, was playing in the background, and just like on that winter day, he listened closely to the beautifully composed verses, this time in sadness that he had caused John pain. The thought of hurting his beloved friend stung deep inside and he let out a sob. He buried his head in his hands and pulled at the roots of his hair. It’s scientifically proven that one cannot feel pain in more than one place at a time, but however hard he tugged and ripped at his curls the aching in his chest was still present, and it wouldn’t go away, no matter how forcefully he pulled his hair. He now understood what John had been trying to do, to move the pain. 

Maybe it had worked for John. Maybe it hadn’t. He let go of his hair because he had concluded that there was no use in ripping out his hair. It was like being stung mildly again and again until you couldn’t take it anymore. It wasn’t the same pain he had felt when he had been tortured; this was worse. As Sherlock sat contemplating whether or not he should wait for John to come back from wherever he was (he must surely be out), he noticed an envelope amongst all the newspaper articles. It lay trapped under the foot of John’s chair, sealed but with no stamp. He quickly retrieved the letter, that had his name on it in sloppy shaky writing. A somewhat crumpled piece of paper was concealed inside.

__  
  
  


  1. _10\. 2013_



_ Sherlock, _

_ Here I am again spending a rainy Sunday afternoon writing you a letter that you will never read. I feel quite pathetic for doing this, but my psychiatrist advised me to talk to someone about what happened, but I only want to talk to you. I think Mrs. Hudson noticed. She comes up here every day and tries to convince me to go back to the clinic or meet up with Lestrade so that I can at least talk to him. But I don’t want to, I think that’s what she doesn’t understand, that I don’t want to. You might think me horribly rude for this, but I just feel so alone, but at the same time, I don’t want company because they don’t understand how I feel, how much it hurts. It hurts like hell by the way, if you wanted to know. I don’t think the pain will ever go away, it hasn’t before, when I lost my army comrades, that pain never went away. And now there’s just another name to the list. The name I never wanted to add to that list: yours. I went to visit your grave the other day, I tried, I really did, to keep my composure around the other people at the cemetery. They didn’t understand anyway. Nobody does. They probably just saw a man sitting in the wet grass crying in the dark. The people on the street who walk by my window every day probably just see a face behind a curtain, a ghost. Honestly, that’s exactly what I’ve become, a ghost. A lifeless shadow haunting this place, sleeping in your sheets and curling up in your chair. I want this to end so badly. I may never have said it, you may never have felt it, but I loved you. I still do, I still love you and it makes the pain a thousand times worse. If you’re still out there I am sincerely sorry for the amount of pain the information I’m about to tell you will inflict. Please know that you can’t change my decision, neither do I expect you to try, even if you are still out there, and I do hope that you still are. But you must understand that I can’t live like this any longer. I’m sorry. _

_ Yours forever, _

_ John H. Watson _

They say, you never know what you have until you lose it. You might know what you had and what it meant to you, but Sherlock doubted that you could ever imagine how much you would miss someone once they were gone. Especially on this rainy January day, clad in one of his fine suits, this was it. He stood in front of the rough, grey tombstone, that had John’s name scribbled on it. This stone belonged to his best friend. A tear ran down the curve of his cheek, across his sharp cheekbone, almost splitting in two. This stone belonged to his only friend, and as he had recently discovered, his soulmate. Another tear rolled a damp path down his cheek as he stood grieving his loss, a loss that he would probably never overcome. That’s when he knew. Sentiment was a chemical defect that would eventually shatter every heart it had ever touched, and now it had shattered his. How stupid he had been to ever let it into his life. Or maybe he should have protected what he had had when he had had it. He should have crossed the street that night, should have grabbed the moment. Maybe that was the biggest mistake he had ever made. Now it was all too little and too late. It had been invisible, even to Sherlock, and when it had finally been visible it was unsaveable. Invisible, unsaveable, but also undestroyable. Because it had been mutual. 

He touched the stone with his gloved hand, before removing the glove and spreading his fingers over the stone feeling the rough, detailed surface. Another glossy tear trickled down his face, eventually landing on the stone where it dried almost immediately.

I may never have said it, you may never have felt it, but I love you…. John. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, me again! I just felt that I need to say thank you for reading the story, I truly hope you enjoyed! Feedback is much appreciated, have a wonderful day! :)


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